


Horrible AUs for Horrible People

by paudax



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paudax/pseuds/paudax
Summary: Short Fallen Hero AUs written while procrastinating on other things. Don't take this nonsense seriously; I know I don't, lmao.
Relationships: Dr. Mortum/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Herald/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. The One Where Herald Is an Idol

You follow Herald (Daniel, you remind yourself, it's Daniel for today) across the courtyard. He doesn't bother to look at the signs for directions, clearly familiar with the facility's layout. Instead, he's giving slight smiles and brief waves to the people you pass by. Casual. Easy. Familiar.

No one seems even a little surprised.

You're not quite sure how to feel about that, yet.

Is it the difference that bothers you? Seeing those soft grins on his face, so different from the broad, gleaming smiles he presents to the rest of the world — is that the problem?

Or is it the fact that you didn't expect this, somehow, and you don't like the thought that there are things about Herald (about _Daniel_ ) that you didn't know about? That you overlooked?

Just when did he become something (someone) that you wanted to understand?

"Side- uh, I mean," Daniel coughs, breaking you out of your reverie. Seems like you're not the only one having trouble with names today. You try not to feel too smug about that. "It's this way." He holds open a door for you, waiting until you've entered before shutting it.

You close your eyes for a few seconds, letting them adjust to the dimmer, warmer lighting in the lobby. When you next open them, you see one of the residents — a lady with a soft, gentle countenance and even softer brown eyes — look up from the newspaper she was reading. 

"Oh, Danny!" She calls, and a few other heads turn towards you both. "You came! And you brought a friend?"

"Danny?" You murmur, noticing how the tips of his ears turn faintly pink.

"I asked them to call me that," Daniel replies, softly. He doesn't meet your eyes.

Nodding to the lady, Daniel pulls up a chair and puts on one of his warm, charming smiles — the same one he used on the cover of last month's Entertainment Weekly. "Hi, Maude," he greets, unslinging the guitar on his back. "You know I'd never miss one of our concerts. And yeah, um, this is..."

He trails off, waiting. Letting you decide how you want them to see you. Allowing you to introduce yourself.

You do.

"Right!" Daniel picks up. "And we'll be doing some covers for you all today. But before I start, does anyone have any requests?"

"Yes," someone says. You're more than a little surprised to realize that it was you. " _Danny_. A second?"

There is a very, very brief flare of panic in Daniel's eyes when he turns around. "Sure, what's up?"

You lower your voice just enough so that the rest of the room won't pick up on it. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was going to be... participating?"

"Well," Daniel says, having the decency to look at least slightly apologetic. "I know you said you didn't want anything to do with the industry anymore, but I was thinking... this is about _music_ , not the music business, you know? And no one here will record anything," he continues, before you can speak. "I can promise that. I've been coming here every month for the past year, and no one's leaked a thing. You can trust them."

You look over the small crowd of seniors who are watching you with curious anticipation. You're not sure if they even have _one_ smartphone capable of recording in HD between the entire lot of them. And you concede to yourself, extremely reluctantly, that Daniel might have a point about the lack of leaks. 

Not because they wouldn't, but because they can't.

"...Fine," you say, and Daniel exhales in relief. "But for the record? We are going to have words about this later."

*

Later, you look at Daniel over a cup of extremely watery nursing home coffee. 

"Well?" You prompt. 

Daniel, for his part, is wearing a slightly glazed expression that you recognize as equal parts 'oh wow, my idol noticed me' and 'oh no, it was because I did something extremely stupid'.

Remaining silent, you let him explain himself. He tells you all about how he got the idea from a comment that a fan posted on one of his early YouTube cover videos; the ones that are all taken down now because they don't fit Herald's image. About how he realized that there were a lot of people who loved the same kind of music he did, but who didn't use the Internet so much, and about how he wanted to do something for them.

He goes on to share how he contacted one of his high school friends who worked as an RN here, and how his friend made the arrangements for him to come down. How he likes that most of the seniors have never even heard about Herald in the first place, let alone listened to one of his songs — all they recognize is Danny, the nice boy who comes by with his guitar and sings music that they like.

"And that's why," you cut in, "you had us duet on [ Don't Cry Joni ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSG3NwUkMXs), with you playing Joni?"

You feel remarkably proud of yourself for keeping your voice completely neutral.

"Sidestep, I'm sorry, I didn't think- I mean, I-" Daniel stammers. Then he looks up at you, and you see the worry on his face fade away, only to be replaced by confusion. "Are you _smiling_?"

You realize, to your horror, that you are.

And what's even worse is that Daniel is smiling back.


	2. The One Where Dr Mortum Builds a Mecha

The dim lights cast the laboratory into a maze of shadows. With the low hum of machinery surrounding you, it feels almost — but not quite — familiar.

It would be a lie to say that you feel at home. But there is a certain similarity between this lab and all the other ones you've been in (that you were born in).

Every single aspect has been laid out for maximal efficiency and utility, showing a single-minded commitment to research, progress, and application that its owner's laissez-faire attitude might otherwise belie. It's this structure that makes it easy for you to find your way around. To slip past the gaps in security that no one else would ever notice, and simply walk in as if you were meant to be here all along.

Perhaps you were.

With patience, with practice, you avoid the traps and turns that would take you away from your goal. You bypass another lock, slide under a laser trap, and stay in the shadows as a camera sweeps past your position.

And you enter the heart of the lab to see it standing before you: the  _ pièce de résistance _ .

The mecha.

Tons of gleaming steel so polished you could see your reflection in it cover the adamantium framework that lies underneath. Servos and motors connecting to each other, calling to you to take control of them.  You feel your fingers itch, imagining what it must be like to have all that power at your command. The impossibility of it all makes your breath catch. You take a step forward, towards your mechanical counterpart.

And then someone shoots you in the head.

*

_ Smoke. Fire — Ortega? Ortega next to you, focused on making sense of the readings. The readings that show too many missiles, too many attacks focused on just the both of you. Shouting something you can't hear. Shouting at you? About you? _

_ This isn't right, you think, desperately. You feel like your hands are dragging through molasses, every move you make one step behind, one step too slow to counter the attacks coming at you both. _

_ This isn't how it happened, you know, but you can't stop yourself from crying out. Not when you see every possible move left to make, and they're all wrong. _

_ No, you remember now. _

_ This isn't you. This hasn't ever been you. You are the acme of half a century's research, the product of the blood, sweat, and tears of thousands of men and women. The cumulation of a hundred thousand involuntary sacrifices, of lives that were never given the chance to live. _

_ You look at Ortega, who doesn't know. Who you could never bear to know. Who's looking at you now, confusion and fear and love mixing in their eyes. _

_ And then you lower your shields and  _ merge _. _

_ You barely even hear yourself scream. _

*

When you come to, it's to the acrid smell of burning metal. For a moment, your throat clenches, and you can almost feel the sting of smoke in your eyes. But the sensation you're expecting never comes, and when you push yourself up to look around, you find yourself staring straight into the barrel of a gun.

"Good morning,  _ ma chérie _ ," Dr. Mortum greets you, voice low and steady. "I must admit, it is not often that I have the pleasure of someone inviting themselves into my domain, and then deciding to stay for breakfast after they have been... how shall I put it? Murdered is, alas, not quite as accurate as I would like it to be, considering your current state of affairs."

You consider your options, and also the gun in your face.

"Temporarily inconvenienced by head trauma?" You suggest finally, lips quirking up in a smirk.

Glancing around, you can see that you've been moved to a bench in a different part of the lab. Smaller, messier — a workshop. Welding tools and an odd structure you can't immediately identify lie in the corner of the room, explaining the smell from earlier.

You also notice the gun shake, very, very slightly, and a minute hint of a laugh in Dr. Mortum's eyes.

Reaching up slowly, making sure to telegraph your every move, you reach for the barrel and shift it aside. Dr. Mortum lets you.

"I don't suppose you might care to elaborate?" The good doctor asks. Curiosity. That's good, you can use that. "You see, it is not often that I have come across individuals who possess both the ability to break into my lab, and also come back from the dead. In fact, I would have to say that this is  _ toute première fois _ ."

"And I've never seen a mecha that only needed a single person to control it until yesterday," you reply, matching their tone. "Guess that makes it the first time for both of us. Was it good for you too?"

Dr. Mortum fails to hold back a warm laugh, and you're reasonably pleased when it's accompanied by the gun being lowered. Not that it could have done you any lasting harm, though.

"Ahem... I am afraid, though, that I still find myself somewhat confused about your aim," Dr. Mortum says. "You see, normally when people bypass all my security devices to break into my lab and acquaint themselves with my masterpiece, I would call it  _ un acte de malice _ . But I think now I would like to know how you might see it."

You nod. Let yourself stretch. Let Dr Mortum see the hard lines of muscle and steel shift under your clothes. Note the interest and hunger in those eyes.

"How about..." You trail off, as if you're considering what to say. Enjoying how Dr. Mortum leans towards you to catch your answer. "...an audition?"

"Oh? And for what role, pray tell?"

"Why, Doctor, isn't that obvious?" You grin, rewarded by the matching smile that appears on the doctor's face. "Your pilot, of course."


End file.
